


Unto the Brume, from the Memoirs of Henry Gordon

by Crocmon



Series: Memoirs of Henry Gordon, Savior of the Star [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Memoirs, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26361721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crocmon/pseuds/Crocmon
Summary: After settling matters in Norvrandt, the infamous Warrior of Light known as Henry Gordon finds himself shuffled to a simple posting of guard duty for the Brume. As a First Lieutenant of the Immortal Flames, he braces for what he believes will be a simple-but-chilly matter of paper-filing and pencil-pushing. However, when Hilda Ware approaches him with a request for aid, it is quickly revealed that 'simple' is to be subtracted from his duties.A first person account of the often mythologized exploits of the Warrior of Light, "Unto the Brume, from the Memoirs of Henry Gordon" is the telling of a reluctant Henry Gordon as he undertakes adventures that earn him the title he often regrets earning, with notations from his companions to elaborate on things the New Jersey-native often forgets to include himself.This does not follow any canonical quests, but does include references to events that are canonical and as such may have spoilers up to and beyond 5.3!
Series: Memoirs of Henry Gordon, Savior of the Star [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915624
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Guard Duty

> _What follows is a first-hand account of an oft-untold series of events that took place in the Brume, a district of Foundation that was once a slum filled with the lowborn of the Holy See of Ishgard. However, nowadays the Brume is home to a wide variety of peoples from all walks of life, and is connected to the restored Firmament. Years ago, when the legendary Henry Gordon walked the streets of many cities across the Star, the dangers of a large population in the tightly drawn district were ever-present. Henry Gordon was renowned for having something of a connection to the people of the Brume, and often admitted to understanding their plights of living in squalor. While there were several times in his career where he was genuinely on the streets, he very rarely went hungry and even more rarely had to resort to crime as many of the inhabitants had to in order to survive. An issue with Henry's memoirs, which I seek to rectify, is that he often fails to explain anything beyond the immediate context of his exploits unless he feels it entirely necessary. I will do my best to accommodate you, the reader, by splicing relevant excerpts of other works, documentation, and reporting where appropriate. As his retainer and former Inquisitor to the Holy See of Ishgard (of which Gordon never admitted to being aware, even when I confronted him with it on his deathbed), I was privy to many of the lesser-published documents surrounding his illustrious career. Another issue with these memoirs is that Henry Gordon was often his worst critic, and refused to accept that many of his accolades were genuinely earned. Whenever necessary, I will rectify any negative statements he makes about himself if I can do so without eroding the flow of the work._
> 
> _\- Lynell Martin, Immortal Flames Ambassador and former Ishgardian Inquisitor_

Of all the times in my career when I found myself at odds with unspeakable horrors of Light and/or Darkness, angry knights and guard captains, bandit hordes, and the odd barmaid, one particular instance of accidental heroism in the Brume springs to mind. And not the antics of the Dragonsong War, Lord and Twelve both know that there are enough accounts of that to fill a tomestone or twelve. No, this is heroism spawned by drawing a short-straw at a meeting of Officers in the Immortal Flames, I relished the opportunity despite openly expressing distaste with it. The other officers were quick to poke fun of me, saying I won the least glorious job of the lot. However, I saw this as an opportunity to catch up on some much-needed relaxation and gathering in the Diadem, to contribute to the Restoration effort going on at the time. I had Disciple of the Hand crafts to hone, and sought nothing else than a few odd-hours of office work, perhaps some disciplinary action at the Forgotten Knight when my squadron got too rowdy for their own good, but beyond that very little in the way of genuine concerns. When I arrived, however, I was the first one to understand that I would be enjoying nothing of the sort.

With all of my gear handled by eager Ishgardian Knights and tucked away into a special suite at the Forgotten Knight, I found myself greeted by the esteemed Aymeric de Borel. He nodded to the rapier at my hip, the sign of a budding Red Mage (and often enough of a deterrent in its own right to ward off any trouble in the streets of the rowdy Brume), and offered his hand to shake in honest friendship. What began was a game I found myself quite eager to play: an exchanging of grips. When I first arrived to Eorzea, a Roegadyn man greeted me with a handshake that damn-near broke my hand, and soon after I crafted a spell that would enchant my gauntlets with extra strength. No materia, simple enchantment. This made the game of 'whose grip was more manly' a far easier game to play for me, whose New Jersey Accountant upbringing had never met a man who actually had the hand-strength to threaten my confidence by besting me in this game. On Earth, simply playing with one of those grip-strength devices for an hour every day gave me enough strength. In Eorzea, however, Roegadyn had the ability to crush the hand of a man my size with their index finger and thumb. That, and those fantastic hand-occupying devices were not yet invented in Eorzea.

"I see you are as strong as ever," he laughed and raised his eyebrows to show his impression was positive before we pulled closer to a more friendly embrace. He seemed quick to move onto official matters, the specifics of which have long since left my mind, but he cut to business with a characteristic inhalation and the release of his breath through clenched teeth. His piercing grey-blue eyes told me all I needed to know: it was trouble of the worst variety, "I know this post requires you only to bolster the Brume's guard rotation, but there have been rumors I believe it is best to inform you of."

"Rumors? Affecting my work?" I laughed, like the heroic figure the man had come to believe I'd grown into, "If I'd a coin for every time that happened to me the Firmament would have been restored yesterday,"

"Aye, it certainly would have been," he inhaled again, his lack of laughter betraying the gravity of the problem, "But these matters are pressing enough that I may as well tell you before your heroism sees it resolved by your presence alone. There are rumors of a nasty thing in the Brume, and while I've no doubt you can handle it, I believe your adventurer squadron may find it if they pursue some of the fairer maidens that frequent the Forgotten Knight."

"Are foreigners being targeted exclusively?" I asked this with concern in my voice that, to this day, I believe Aymeric took as being for my squadron. Truthfully, it was self-interest, for _I was the one who would be pursuing the lovelier women that frequented the Forgotten Knight._ As the stories told, I did become something of a "ladies man" after my exploits in Norvrandt awoken a new form of confidence in me. The act of bravado sometimes eroded into genuine bravado, and I found myself in the company of pleasant, non-cutpurse women more often than I ended up clutching my Aether Crystals after being tied up, blindfolded, and robbed.

> _Truthfully speaking, his luck certainly had improved. After the first few times it had happened to him, I was asked by Tataru of the Scions to keep a running tally. The financier of the Scions and I came to estimate that his initial 'success rate' with tavern wenches was a clean ten percent. However, this dramatically improved by this point in his lifetime, when his travels in Norvrandt seemed to have awakened something within him that, by most objective accounts, made him more alluring to women with honest, though sinful, intentions. He then only ended up naked in the halls of the inn shouting for help twenty-five percent of the time, after that. -Lynell  
>  _

"No," Aymeric explained with his signature velvet voice, "Even a few of the local guard have reported missing men."

"Entirely missing?"

"Aye. Our searches have come up with nothing, and as such I've had to resort to tapping into Hilda's resources. The results are more promising, but still seem to come up short. I have instructed her to visit you, should she come up with anything close to success."

"Perfect," I stated aloud. My hopes were that such an incident would never occur, and that whoever my successor at the post would be would end up saddled with the duty. Whatever had been spiriting away these men was not at all something I wanted to contend with uninformed. However, on a particularly snowy night in my quarters, signing a package for the promotion of one of my men to Sergeant, Hilda Ware herself slammed my door open with the concerned faces of Cecily, my Squadron's Conjurer, and Toragana, one of the squadron's archers. I make no assumptions of you, dear reader, but when three women throw a door open with as much concern on their faces as my two subordinates had, and as much _rage_ as Hilda wore like lipstick, I highly advise that you do not do as I did in this scenario and make a wisecrack. All three of them knew my brand of humor and had established their limits of it with me, and so I had expected it would disarm the tension they came to me with.

"Normally when this many women throw my door open with this much concern and fury on their faces, Hilda, I expect one of them is to announce I have a bastard on the way," I said, sipping gently from my cup of warmed _Espresso con Panna_ , which had just been delivered to me by my equally warm retainer, Lynell Martin. She was in the room, and gave me a foul look as she understood the manner of problem far faster than I had.

> _Though the addition of sour cream allegedly added a distinct flavor to the drink, Henry Gordon's fascination with the taste is a mystery to me. He would often request it above any other beverage, despite having officially endorsed Limsan-pressed orange juice as his preferred beverage to many children who often asked him his favorite drink. This discrepancy between what he said and ordered may have come from a notion from 'New Jersey,' which I have records of him stating that 'children should not have espresso of any sort.' But, as far as_ Espresso con Panna _itself is concerned: the languages I know do not contain words suited to explain the foul taste such a drink brings._

"Not the time you bloody shite-eater," Hilda gave, "Yer man, the Roegadyn,"

"Hastaloeya?"

"Aye, the very same," Hilda stepped into the room as I took another sip off the top of my warm cup, "The lad was workin' with me t' find this bloody Beast of the Brume, and he stopped respondin' to his linkpearl after claiming he saw the loveliest woman of his life."

"Then let him have his fun, I can file the repri-"

"You ploughin' arsehole!" Hilda shouted, much to my surprise, "The lad's bein' dragged off by a bloody Voidsent and several guards are confirmin' it!"

Thankfully the drink had warmed my body significantly, or the chill that froze my blood as it ran down my spine may very well have blown my cover of 'calm and collected Hero of Eorzea' in front of four people who very much believed that I was four times as much a hero as my reputation implied. Perhaps maybe Hilda: she never did admit if she believed the accolades I'd been given.

> _She is on record as having had an affection for his ability to keep a straight-face in the surest of danger, and to meet any threat or challenge with a suitable joke. Such an admittance is bitterly ironic considering how a majority of his memoirs are filled with his insistence of being petrified beyond action, and the rumors that they had spent quite a bit more time together than duty required of them. Such admiration and respect is almost expected of people who have been around the Warrior of Light, despite Henry's insistence that it was undeserved._

Snatching my rapier from the desk and donning my overcoat, which was glamoured to look as a Replica Allagan Tunic of Casting, I bolted from the room with haste. I'd knocked over the drink onto the packages, which was a problem for future-me to deal with. Had I known the depths of Darkness I would plunge into, however, I may very well have requested assistance from the entire Squadron instead of the two that joined me and Hilda on this blasted journey I would undertake.


	2. Voidsent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After learning of Hastaloeya's bewitching at the hands of a Voidsent he believes is the most beautiful woman in Eorzea, Henry Gordon takes his rapier and charges with Hilda Ware and two subordinates in tow. Quickly, the fighting becomes far more than he bargained for and the job becomes far more complicated than an odd enchantress stealing his subordinates away to perform unspeakable acts.

> _Attached here is a small snippet from a treatise on Voidsent, to explain in a way that may allow you to fully understand just what it was Henry Gordon faced in his travails, as well as provide a hint as to what manner of problem he was quickly coming to face. His memoirs took a rather selfish assumption that one would have sat down and read the entire bloody thing far too often, despite knowing that dictating his memoirs took the scribe the better part of two months to complete. From non-sequitur statements to frustratingly good arguments about the merits of pencil skirts, I have painstakingly edited out at least as much as had been dictated. Though, despite his lack of understanding that his memoirs would span several volumes of text, in our sessions of dictation he at least paid me well, as well as having paid the other scribes that needed to assist when I was unavailable. Ventures only handle so much, and he often shared the fine wines he would receive from various Ishgardian nobles with me, so despite my gripes editing these memoirs into digestible chunks was at least a task he saw fit to reward me for._
> 
> _\- Lynell Martin, Immortal Flames Ambassador and Former Ishgardian Inquisitor_

> "Succubi manifest on the physical plane by forcing their souls into the bodies of deceased women. Once the transition is complete, the resultant creature is said to be both fair and fey to look upon. Still more disconcerting, researchers claim that these voidsent occasionally exhibit the personality traits of their deceased hosts. Succubi occupy the third and fourth rungs of the voidsent Hierarchy."
> 
> \- "Treatise on the Voidal Hierarchy," various authors

As we chased our way through the Brume, I quickly found our man and drew my rapier. The glamour added a layer of intimidation as it surged with a mockery of the energy of Nidhogg, something I wore to great effect in many duels. After all, if I could swing that around without worry of being consumed by the elemental of vengeance, what hope did my enemies have of swaying my hand or my thoughts? None, I tell you! However, many a bloody idiot decided that it would be upon my blade they fell by challenging me. Thanks solely to the merits of a Red Mage's Soul Crystal, I was capable of quite many a feat of swordsmanship that would have been far less effective in my homeland, where firearms were far more common and developed. However, as I prepared a cast of Jolt, I recognized that the Voidsent bewitching Hastaloeya was an Ahriman. This escalated issues immensely, as a wench wearing makeup with some bewitching magic would have been one problem, and easily confused as a voidsent by someone without the experience of fighting one, but a full-on Ahriman in Ishgard? I could not fathom the implications directly. Though, something itched in my mind as I snapped my magical focus into the hilt of my rapier for a spell.

"Unhand him, you foul beast!" I shouted with the bravado needed to rally my troops, and let loose the Jolt spell. It singed past Hastaloeya, and startled him from the charm. He immediately recoiled from the former object of his affections, and like the perfectly oiled machine I knew he was he snatched his pack from the air, after Toragana threw it to him. He slapped the pack, and in a flash of light had been equipped in his gear. He drew his axe, and snarled as he barked a taunt at the Ahriman. I followed up the Jolt cast with Verthunder, and repeated the alternating uses of White and Black magic to maintain the balance I would use to guide my swordswings. The fight was quickly joined by more Voidsent, and the tight alleyway of the Brume was suddenly a mosh pit.

"Bloody voidsent!" Hastaloeya howled, and his axe swung about him in a circle to grab the attention of as many Voidsent as possible. Hilda proved ever the crackshot with her longrifle, and I will ever be thankful I was on her good graces. Had she a mind, she likely could have ended me several times throughout my career. And with her connections, it would have been a simple matter to make it seem as if I'd been mugged in the streets. However, the woman was understanding of my intentions as we danced blades and steel about the alleyway. Toragana's volleys filled the air, her pink hair being the only real sign she was there as she tucked away into the darkness of the street. Cecily however was a shining beacon of White magic, hurling earth and wind elemental energy as well as weaving powerful healing magic that would keep our sorry hides where they were supposed to be. While she was not a White Mage in name, she was a very potent Conjurer in her own right and I would have vouched for her if White Mages could have been vouched for.

"Hastaloeya, now!" I let out, and I charged in with a Corps-a-corps, and began the flourish of rapier attacks that would spell the end of the Ahriman, topping off with a Displacement to jump me clear out of the way of its death throes. Suitably, he leapt in on his own accord to swing his axe about and regain the attention of the other Voidsent. Just as well, as my flourishing mana was all but spent at that point and I'd been more than happy to let him take the brunt of the attacks for a moment as I prepared a litany of area-of-effect magicks. Such a respite was never to be mine, however, as I was quickly launched through a wooden wall and onto the dinner table of a poor lowborn family by the bloodied fist of an Ogre, of all things. Quickly gaining my bearings as the year or so of adventuring and my Echo permitted me, I drew my rapier again and with a flourish of my rapier promptly made an apology to the lady of the house.

"Sorry to barge in, but is there room for two?" I asked loudly, a smile on my face as the Ogre charged forward. I braced myself, knowing full-well that one doesn't _parry_ the oncoming charge of an Ogre, but instead steps to the side and sends the pointed end of the weapon underneath their armpit. A daring move, but one that _most_ of the time proved fatal in my travels. Thankfully so, for as my blade plunged through with a stroke of luck I spun around and employed Manafication to cap my mana reserves and charged headlong into the fray again. Had the souls of Red Mages past not been in my mind as I fought, I likely would have never had the idea to stab the armpit in my first duel with one in the crystalline hellscape that surrounded Mor Dhona, and so I mentally thanked them for their insight.

> _As you may find characteristic of Henry Gordon, he never offers himself the credit he should be due, unless it's to boast about how easy something was to try shirking his duties, or to play up the successes of his subordinates. From what research I could muster, there was no such technique developed for the slaying of Ogres before he became a household name during the Seventh Umbral and Astral Era, but his passing remarks after a particularly nasty stampede of Ogres assaulted Mor Dhona about the armpit quickly became known as a surefire way to slaughter them wholesale, and was verified by a more daring chirurgeon's vivisection of one of the beasts revealed his 'lucky stab' had managed to find a piece of anatomy that allowed a rapier (or even a well-aimed projectile) to dislodge a key organ in the beast's anatomy that would disperse its aether faster than any other form of damage._

Their characteristic lack of response, however, fueled a storm of Enchanted Moulinets that tore the mob of Imps and other nasty Voidsent to shreds, and once the carnage had passed Hilda immediately sheathed her weapon to see the lowborn family's needs were tended to while I darted to the kneeling Hastaloeya as I sheathed my rapier. He transitioned from his knees to his stomach, flat on the ground and dry-heaving. He clutched at his stomach through the armor plating, pushing his face off the ground. I punched the man's back, in hopes the force would help him either keep it down or heave it out. Thankfully, however, Cecily chimed in with a well-informed order that may have saved the man's life.

"If you don't vomit you'll bloody die, Hastaloeya!" She shouted.

"The alcohol can't have been that potent?" I replied, trying to put on a brave face.

"You didn't recognize how sluggish his attacks were?"

"I chalked it up to being drunk,"

"No, it wasn't just that, he's fought drunk before, and normally a good Esuna fixes his stupor. This one was more potent. Now, Hastaloeya! Vomit!"

As ordered, he let go of his stomach's contents and the usual bile and acids emanated a foul, smokey substance. Cecily's staff tapped on the pavement, and a quick burst of offensive Conjuration magic banished it into the darkness of the alley. I recognized it at once, but Cecily's voice gave it a name far before mine did.

"Bloody Dark Aether," she swore, clutching a holy symbol to Thaliak she wore on her neck, "It would be what they tainted the meal with. See," She gestured at a particularly unpleasant looking bit of the warrior's dinner before snarling, "That has a crystal in it. If it didn't slice his innards apart, the crystal would be used to suffuse his carcass with even more Dark aether to create a more powerful home for a nasty Voidsent."

"Please don't talk about my innards getting sliced apart," Hastaloeya finally said, standing, "Nor the parts about me gettin' possessed by the bloody Voidsent."

Frankly, I agreed with him. But, my sword arm felt an unnecessary need to flex, and I felt a sneaking suspicion in my mind bubble to the surface before the part of me that would have ran screaming from the revelation beat it down with a plank of wood. Truthfully, this was the first I'd heard of someone lacing _food_ with aether, much less dark-aspected crystals. I couldn't help but agree with her diagnosis that it may have killed him by nature of being a crystal in his stomach, but the aether in such a small crystal would have done nothing without some form of-

And just like that, the realization came back with vengeance, beating the terrified part of my mind to death with a shoe and screaming the words that came out of my mouth with the trademark surety people came to expect of me: "Then the Ahriman wasn't the acting party, and neither were the other Voidsent we fought. They were just pawns."

"Aye," Cecily confirmed, but before she could say more Hilda interrupted with her characteristically crossed arms and scrutinizing red eyes holding contact with mine.

"You said those're bloody pawns, then? Shite," She reeled at the sight of Hastaloeya's tossed cookies, "Disgustin, but, Mr. 'Warrior of Light,' if 'at's how yer men hold their liquor-"

"Unfortunately for the sake of your joke," I interrupted, "The man could outdrink us both, and that's before we even come to the fact that he's a Roegadyn. He was poisoned, Dark Aether."

"Magic shite?"

"Precisely. Whatever's been drawing men to their disappearance has been using their carcasses to summon more Voidsent. In short, this isn't an odd beast,"

"Nay, it's a bloody cult," Hilda said, cutting quicker to the point than I expected of her.

"Why yes, precisely that," I said with a bit of astonishment in my voice, "How did you come to it?"

"Well, I figured the bloody cloaked loon starin' at us from down the way was the first tell," She laughed, spinning her longrifle from her hip and firing a shot directly at a previously-undetected figure. I leaped to my feet, rapier and focus out as quickly as I realized what was happening. As I jumped to the man, I realized he'd dodged left and rolled around me before spinning and hitting me in the back with a palm-strike. Riding the momentum, I ducked low and rolled myself before reassessing the situation and seeing the cloaked man was taking a Monk's poise. With a twisting motion he jumped from a hand-stand to a spinning kick I managed to evade by simply keeping distance, and caught his balled fist with the handguard of my rapier in an attempt to deflect his attack. I realized it was an attempt to disarm as his hand unfolded in the gaps of my handguard and began to pull, in which case I held my grip thanks to my previously-mentioned enchanted gloves.

"Came to see why your victim didn't make it to the point?" I shouted, kicking at his ribs and knocking him from his stance before breaking my weapon from his grip and coming up for a slash at his face. He dodged with a spin and turn, and Hilda roared as she shot again. A miss, one that I felt whizz past my head as the man stood equidistant to us and held his arms up in some form of guard. Toragana let loose a flurry of arrows, many enchanted with some magic of her own, and the monk dropped to one knee as many of the arrows found purchase in his torso. I leaped in, thrusting the rapier deep. The man's torso caught it too easily, and when I pulled back the purchase it found too easily turned into anything but a boon. As if he was riding my momentum, he twisted and took me with him. Enchanted gloves or no, I was forced to release the rapier for the moment or I would have dislocated my shoulder.

"No, simply to see if my bait had caught the Warrior of Light or not," the man hissed, tearing the rapier out of his chest as one would a thorn in one's foot and tossing it at me. I caught it easily, swinging clean the blood with a flick of my wrists. Only when the blood rose into the moonlight as vapor did I realize that I had impaled a Voidsent. As I stood, Hilda's muzzleflash illuminated the alleyway and I recognized the foul hood of an Ascian. Or, at least, someone in their robes.

"And who might you be?" I asked, annoyed that the bloodied Ascians would be the cause of men being ensnared by beautiful women.

"I am Bellatrix," He snarled, "A practicioner of dark arts, and the one who shall bring back the dark arts your weak-minded superiors outlaw!"

"Summoning? I fixed that," I chuckled.

"The ancients held Voidsent as warriors, shackled them and used them to bring peace to all the weak peoples they conquered! Now, they simply wield you like a slavering dog. Dangle an exotic woman in front of a good, Fury-fearing man, and his morals collapse."

"And in your case it was lack of a beautiful woman that inspired yours to strengthen to the point of summoning Voidsent?"

"What?! No! I was gifted my powers by the Ascians, their words came to me in a dream, one where I washed the world in Darkness and clean-"

"Only gave you them in dreams? Then this should be a short fight!" I said, as I charged forward once more. Caught off-guard by my remark, the blade struck true. Now, you may recall that Ascians require White Auracyte to capture and disperse their souls to the Rift so that they may _permanently_ die, which I quickly remembered as dark aether dissipated around me. Bellatrix's laughter made me curse the lack of the special mineral, which I had left back in my quarters in the Forgotten Knight like the buffoon that I was. However, the damage had been done as the dark sorcerer's face faded from the corpse's and the fate of one missing guardsman was revealed. Lowering him gently, I beckoned Cecily over to see if aught could be done.

Unfortunately, naught could be. He'd been dead for some time, the aether of this 'Bellatrix' madman had kept his body from decaying for some time.

"Those robes," Toragana asked, her fingernails touching her teeth in an anxious response I'd come to expect from her, "Was that an Ascian, like the ones you mentioned in the reports Dancing Wolf sent?"

"Close enough," I admitted, "Though hardly a thing to worry about. Pushing him from one body to another has put us on the better footing: he will have to find a suitable corpse to possess rather than taking one of us along for a ride. We should be more than fine to recuperate and assess his attack patterns."

"A bloody corpse, y'say?" Hilda laughed, "Then shite, you won't like where we killed 'im at,"

"Don't tell me," I said through tightly shut eyes.

"Aye, the public crypts are just a few yalms that way," She threw her thumb to her right, "N' if 'e can teleport like that, the bastard's not gonna 'ave to be down long."

"Well, what with the Restoration effort doing so well he should have a hard time finding a corpse, right?" Of course, this would be far from the end of my contesting the Beast of Brume, so her response was to be expected at this point.

"Restoration effort, y'mean the same place where strong lads fall off a balcony n' crack their necks like what happened the other day? Aye yea, sure, he'll have a hard time findin' a corpse. He'll 'ave too many to pick, he might have t' window shop fer a bit!" She laughed, darkly, at my attempt to disarm the tension. Hastaloeya heaved once more, and I felt my mood do about the same as the coin dropped: we fought easily two dozen Voidsent including Ogres. A few odd accidents in the Restoration project were one thing, a dead man worn by a wannabe Ascian another, but that many Voidsent meant either a gate had been opened, or a cult had been making _consistent_ sacrifices in order to create smaller tears to pull the ugly bastards from the Void into the Source.

"It's never easy, is it, sir?" Toragana said, unwittingly giving voice to my innermost dialogue. But, ever the hero I had to be, I wore the brave face and spoke loud enough to silence my internal screaming.

"That's right, Toragana, heroics seldom are." As you may have come to expect from these memoirs, dear reader, I would lament those words for a very long time before this whole ordeal was completely dealt with.


	3. Dancing With Aether

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After learning of the Ascian-Wannabe named Bellatrix, the illustrious Henry Gordon and his squadron would join Hilda Ware to implore Ser Aymeric de Borel to partake in a particularly insane scheme. One that would be come to known as the "Aymeric Sworddance," and would incur a financial debt that the Warrior of Light would never repay, for fear it would sully the treasured experience it represented.

> _Truth being a weapon often-kept sheathed in my line of work, I am afraid I must draw it in order to cut to the chase. Henry's assignment to the Brume would stretch on for months due to his need to reach out to Aymeric de Borel. As I am long-since retired from the expectations of my Inquisitorial duties, I can confess that Henry's ability to reach out to Aymeric de Borel through as casual a means as simply shouting 'Hey, my man!' at the most influential swordsman of Ishgard was in no small part due to his accidental and unwitting connection to the Inquisition. I simply overheard his need to discuss something with Aymeric one night, and a few strings were pulled to see Aymeric be requested to personally inspect something of minor import near the Forgotten Knight._
> 
> _However, another use of the truth must be employed. Henry Gordon's assignment was extended, and he talks very little of it in the memoirs. Nothing truly interesting happened, at all. And, as one would expect from the Warrior of Light, he rarely tracked the time. To such an aggravating extent that he often forgot very important things. Like dinner dates, or namedays, and later on in his life_ anniversaries. _As one can only expect, I suppose, of the Hero of Eorzea, Savior of the Realms, Flaker, just to list a few other titles of his. If you had not noticed, I'd been trying to at least see him in a less-than-formal setting for quite some time. As an Inquisitor, I wanted to see him as more than a drunken lout who accidentally turned into a hero: I wished to see the man that a certain Miqo'te we both knew borderline worshiped. But, some things were never meant to be. Personal gripes aside, it pains me to have to explain the time that he just collapses in his memories.  
> _
> 
> _Bellatrix would have little success growing his Voidsent hoard, thanks to the vigilance of Henry and his Squadron. Holding vigils at every tavern they could (and often splitting up to handle more than one a night), they made a show of going on what Henry insisted was a 'bar crawl' and drew crowds with roaring, exaggerated tales of his exploits and personally making himself (and some of his men) a target for the enchantments. When one of the men spoke of finding a 'Senorita of their dreams,' he would quickly move his squadron to engage it. How he managed to make the coded language survive an enchantment is beyond me, but Henry had a way of leaving an impression on his subordinates: many of his mannerisms rubbed off on them, and from there infiltrated the lingo of most Immortal Flames enlistees._
> 
> _\- Lynell Martin, Immortal Flames Ambassador and Former Ishgardian Inquisitor_

Time truly flies when one is having fun, and it only feels like it has when one isn't. Extending an assignment because of bloody Voidsent was enough to make a man want to gouge his eyes out with a tarnished spoon, and it inspired much more intense a reaction in an absolute coward of a New Jersey Native as myself. However, a plan was hatched after a short meeting with Ser Aymeric de Borel. Of all the souls who shone brightly, and inspired the kind of Hope that a dark-aether infused lunatic would hate most, Aymeric's was the most brightly burning torch. People will insist it would have been me, but I assure you: at the time I was a buffoon living in an apartment in the Mists who had the sour luck of being able to kill Primals without fear of being Tempered. Aymeric was a genuine hero, and looked absolutely stunning as well. Bellatrix would risk all of Ishgard uniting to rip his limbs off and bludgeon him to death, and target a drunken Aymeric faster than any of us could have dreamed. Or, failing that, simply possessed Ser Aymeric. Though, with myself in town, he dared little of the sort.

A fabulous feast was planned at Ser Aymeric's estate: a celebration of a phase of the Ishgard Restoration Project. We would sing, dance, drink, and generally be merry, perhaps even officiate a wedding or forty-seven. And a particularly offensive caricature of an Ascian was used as a mascot for the feast. Truly, Ishgard's Restoration at the hands of so many outsiders to Ishgard spat in the face of the Ascians who wished them to remain a nation of xenophobic isolationists. The fact that I am able to use those words in a sentence stuns me to this day: previously I'd only ever written that kind of sentence for a college paper in a history class back on Earth, but here in Eorzea the potential joke is lost on you. Anyway, an offensive image of an Ascian getting a boot across its ass was made on the invitations. And best of all? We made a straw effigy, filled it to the brim with sweets, and offered children bats to bludgeon it until candy fell out.

I shamelessly stole many ideas from Earth and brought them to Ishgardian culture. Such as feigning a bout of indigestion to get out of a date with a very close friend, when the real reason I flaked was due to the absolute terror that said friend wanted more out of me than I was fully ready to give her. We'd been _very_ close once, maybe twice before, but as you should expect by now, I am horrified of commitment and fly on the seat of my pants at every opportunity. As such, I used that idea during the time between this banquet and the enchanting of Hastaloeya, and to this day I believe it was for the best. The complications that would arise years _after this mess_ with a certain leader of the Dotharl tribe complicated the marriage I had at the time, surely, and I believe said friend would have taken it very harshly instead of laughing it off as my current spouse had. Sadu dueled her. They fought to a draw, and Sadu complimented my choice in women. The picture of wholesome relationships, truly.

> _I had always wondered why a scribe had been hired for these memoirs, rather than myself. Had he said this to me I may very well have snapped his throat. Out of offense for his friend, of course, and nothing else. The woman would have been very upset, and I am fairly empathetic to the plight of women who are flaked on by such a buffoon as Henry Gordon believed himself to be._

The night of the banquet was upon us. A lively band had been hired, hundreds attended that night, and we had to set up additional tables. As Aymeric stood, he gestured to the effigy of a savagely beaten Ascian being eviscerated for candied sweets, a metaphor for how senseless violence against the criminally insane Ascians somehow ended up a boon for everyone involved, and delivered a trademark speech that belittled the Ascians and complimented the local men and women who persevered through the foul machinations of such dastardly fiends. Had I been paying attention, I may have been able to recite it to my scribe so that you could read it. But, I'm sure someone has a more "historically accurate" recording somewhere, a more deserving thing to be immortalized gathering dust because the epic poems written of my exploits by that Wandering Minstrel became the defining pieces of literature for at least two generations. Please, read those. The Ishgardian leadership had a wonderful way with words, one I never topped.

"I object to your claims!" A voice called out. It was a balding man, who wore a devilish smirk and pointed at Ser Aymeric with a wooden spoon.

"Didn't know we were in court, you jackass, sit down and eat your stuffing," I shouted at him, with all the intensity I could muster. Though, admittedly, it was hard to speak through the spoonful of vegetable stuffing I'd crammed in my mouth. Ishgardian stuffing was similar to a kind of pre-made stuffing back in Jersey, one I would often just eat without cooking myself. The seasoning was what made the Ishgardian variety so delectable to me, and I'd eat it alone more often than not.

"Nay, we are always in court, for I accuse the foul Usurper of his Usurpation of the throne,"

"We dealt with that, threw out half the madmen who barked about heresy as the dragons came bearing the olive branch, and-"

"NAY! The throne of _Life!_ The See of Ishgard is but one of _many_ foul kingdoms and nations that have arisen from the true crime of existence, one that all here are guilty of! I see to balance the scales, and as such-"

"As such, my wardrobe-missing friend, you wish to see the _Defender of Eorzea_ stand for all lands? You wish to test my mettle?" This was where I interrupted him. Drawing my weapon as I gulped the last of the stuffing I could manage to fight with down, I avoided stomping on the plates of my fellow feasters, and decided to make a show of it. I held out the rapier, egging him to attack. I caught the eyes of a woman on the grips of terror, one who was not sure what was happening. So, I winked at her. The idea came to me suddenly, and honestly it may have made what followed a true spectacle.

"All in attendance, clear the tables! I challenge this foul Ascian to a duel!" I said, in a mocking tone. Aymeric caught on instantly, clapping twice.

"I shall also stand in the reserves, to challenge thee, foul Ascian!" He shouted. As he and I both stood on the table, a gunshot rang through the air. Hilda, as wonderful to behold as ever, smiled and joined the fray.

"Aye, n' the shite-eater wants to stand against _all_ o' us? 'En I'll toss in my longarm!" She seemed to be a natural thespian, as I almost began to buy that this was staged by her acting. The balding man saw a resistance forming, people jeering him as they would a jester representing the Garlean Emperor, and our 'Bellatrix' also bought the idea that he'd been brought into a trap. My Squadron joined at my back, making this a proper group of eight. The man snapped his fingers, and a flashy wave of darkness revealed his Ascian robes. He summoned a handful of Voidsent, one in particular being a Succubus. The smart folk did more than clear the table for the duel, they got the Hell away. Our bravado would surely be tested, and I expected to end up disemboweled in front of so many admirers. Some of the more sheltered nobility failed to recognize danger for what it was, to which I came up with the perfect ploy.

"All spectators to the Trial of the Sundered, I suggest you find yourselves a place in the rafters!" I gestured widely to the various support structures that were normally used to support the Firmament projects. Guards began to herd people along, catching on instantly that the show may be dangerous. After all, some magic didn't just _look_ flashy and dangerous, but truly was. We were trained professionals, after all! Or, at least, that's what the cover story was.

"I shall try thee! O, Rivals Mine," the cult-leader Bellatrix cackled, "We shall dance with swords, and let that be the evidence to your worth!"

As I danced my hands about, crafting the signs for a Jolt, one I would use to weave in a Verthunder and Fleche, I heard Aymeric charge ahead of me. Hilda fired a shot that nearly took my ear off (something she would later admit to doing for fun with that singsong voice of hers), with my Squadron taking aim at the various Voidsent. No doubt the guests thought it was a trick of the light, or a glamour placed on cooperative Moogles and an odd drake or two, but they had no idea the danger that was attacking this feast. Cecily dropped a dome of healing magic upon us, and the fight began properly. Spells slung about by all attending parties, arrows raining from the sky, and the performance art that was this combat became a spectacle I would later find was turned into an Ishgardian drama. However, the true focus of the matter was the bloody Bellatrix charging _me_ of all people.

Having dealt with a monk before on a few combat exercises with the Grand Companies, I knew one key thing to note was to never let them flank you. They would spin around you, trying to make strikes at key angles, and if I could parry and deflect the blows onto other, slightly more armored locations, I would be in far better shape than he was. Truthfully, I was a flurry of blows just as he was. Fist met rapier more often than it likely should have, and I would trade every so many swings with a blast of magic, weave some more swings, and have my dualcast singe another part of my rival's flesh. The spectacle must have been a sight to behold, as roses, kerchiefs scented with lilac and gooseberries, and an odd bit of underwear would intermittently land between us. Almost as if enchanted by it, my opponent would be confused at the scent, taking special care to avoid a particular scent as it seemed to confound him. When a kerchief landed on my face and it stopped his fist, I was given pause as a coin dropped.

It was then that I recalled something of herbal remedies. As a budding Alchemist, I often found myself experimenting with various things. Something I recalled was that Fumitory herbs when burned would assist in exorcisms, and ward off foul spirits. It wasn't quite _scientific_ , but in Eorzea the intent of one's words could often speak a curse into being. Many a family line had terminated by the youngest heir earning the ire of a beggar, or an odd mirror salesman. Another thing I noticed very quickly, however, was that this Ascian in particular bore a familiar face. Despite my understanding that this Ascian had possessed a corpse, he in truth possessed a _living person._

The fumitory scent was causing him issues because it weakened the hold he had on the person he was possessing: a bald Highlander.

"My word," I shouted, snatching the kerchief, "What fair maiden casts this to me, for my stalwart defense?"

A woman shouted her name. I would shout it later, of course, but now was the time for theatrics.

> _Because he had not employed nearly enough, of course._

"My dear M'rahna," I shouted to her, "I shall use the wonderful scent of you to fuel my spells! I shall weave your loving gesture into this magic, for truly, the _love of living_ is what shall win this day!" Truthfully, I had no such attachment to her. But, it sold the act as I burned the scent and created mock incense on the spot. Weaving it into a Veraero, I slapped it onto Bellatrix who began to shout in pain.

"The love of living!? No!" He shouted, like an over-eager buffoon, "It burns me! It slays me!"

"Not quiet yet, _Ascian!"_ He jumped away, clutching his face and seizing as the owner of the body regained control. A rift of darkness appeared, and a bloody _Succubus_ appeared before me. Of all the blasted Voidsent, the one I'd considered bedding at least twice was the one that challenged me now.

"You stall the inevitable with this parlor trick, Warrior of Light!" The Succubus shouted, and was met with jeers and shouts from the crowd.

"Aye, he does, an' I quite like the finale, _Beast o' the Brume!"_ Hilda howled, grabbing the collar of my shirt and swapping spaces with me to stuff the barrel of her rifle in the Succubus' mouth. In a resounding flash, she cleanly parted the Succubus' jaws and it dissipated into aether, "Ha! Henry, that's another one for me!" She cheered, "Tell M'rahna she'll 'ave to wait _her bloody turn_ cuz you owe me a _few_ good times!"

Ecstatic as ever to have been propositioned by two beautiful women on one night (though I imagine Hilda's was merely to ride the glory of the moment).

> _As stated before, it wasn't. If she ever collected, neither have ever admitted to it. I should have taken up marksmanship, rather than the trade of an Arcanist._

"Sir, 'e is all yours!" Hastaloeya shouted, a wide arcing swing of his axe parting the sea of Voidsent that were appearing between myself and Bellatrix. I leapt with a Corps-a-Corps, and traced a dizzying line of lights through the air as I used the fumitory-enchanted swings to sever the bonds between wanna-be Ascian and his captive. The floating darkness wafted into a slightly-corporeal shape, and a booming mockery of Bellatrix's voice filled the square we feasted upon.

"For now, Henry Gordon, but you see! I am an Ascian, and as such, I am truly immortal! I shall rise again, a body made new an-"

"Not by my measure you will! Aymeric!" Toragana shouted to Aymeric, and she tossed a brick of white auracite toward me. It landed in the crowd, falling short. But, the crowd passed it forward, to Aymeric, who tossed it to Cecily, then tossing it to Hastaloeya, who gave a bellowing laugh as he launched it to me. Catching it on my rapier by some miracle of luck, I dropped my torso low. Putting my weight on my right foot and spinning to my right with a hop, I twirled the rapier over my head and in a brief moment I braced myself to make the swing that would launch it at the smoky mess of a soul.

"YEET!" I shouted, which I regret doing. Every time I hear it in the bloody play, I sigh. People mistake it for a sense of longing. Truthfully, it's a seizure I have as my body cringes at the sound of the word. The brick sailed true, collecting the foul aetheric condensation that served as the Ascian-poser's very soul, and I tossed my rapier in the air with a flourish as I dropped a Verholy on it. At this point, such a spell from my hands had enough aetheric density to sunder the stoutest armors, so a poor mortal convinced he was an Ascian because he had the Echo and hallucinated speaking with dead people was of no consequence. The auracite shattered in what amounted to a fireworks display, and I quickly followed it up with several other flashy spells into the night sky before snapping my collar, catching my rapier, and swishing it through the air with a powerful stance.

There was a moment of silence that lasted for several moments, and I looked about to see all the Voidsent had been slain. I looked about, found a tankard of ale that looked full to the top, and as I took it to the air I found M'rahna: a slightly older Miqo'te woman who aged well in all the right places. Tossing her a wink, I shouted:

"For Ishgard, for Eorzea, and for _fine ale and finer lovers!"_

The thunderous applause and near dogpiling tackle my fellow 'performers' gave me nearly broke my eardrums and my legs, but it spoke of a job very well done and a story that few would believe for decades to come. The Beast of the Brume was dealt with, and a potentially-dangerous Ascian poser was swept away with bravado and finesse. A finer bout of guard duty I could never have asked for.

> _And with that, Henry Gordon's recounting of his time in the Brume. Admittedly, I had thought the Beast of the Brume would have been far more than a succubus that got blown away by Hilda Ware. However, the tales of its existence were conflated by the fact that only Hilda Ware could have killed it with the righteousness of her longrifle, and many tales were also sung of how Henry was able to bed any woman in Ishgard. Though, I'm sure that by now you've heard quite a few of those tales already, dear reader._


End file.
